


Swear I'm Good at This

by palateens



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Comedy of Errors, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Ford isn't getting paid enough for this job, Gen, neither was Lardo, technology sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 16:52:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11017554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palateens/pseuds/palateens
Summary: Ford's first week as manager was going well—until that stupid camera.ORHow Foxtrot got her nickname.





	Swear I'm Good at This

**Author's Note:**

> My submission for [The Women of Check, Please! Zine](https://www.dropbox.com/s/tuzhvlf9cch1tyb/ZINE.pdf?dl=0)!

When Ford took this job, she assumed there would be some bumps along the road. She assumed the worst was going to be dealing with piles of gross jock laundry, and the occasional squabble. The latter had yet to happen which was amazing considering the horror stories Larissa would tell her about Derek and Will…Nursey and Dex. She was still getting used to the nicknames. Unlike football players, hockey players seemed to have a more organized system of nicknaming each other.  

Regardless, her first week of practice was going seamlessly. She’d kept her head down, done her job, and even gotten some recognition for how well she’d cleaned three-month-old stains off some practice jerseys. She’d learned the rest of the team’s names. She’d handed out, collected, and filed all their liability and medical paperwork for the year. She cataloged all the equipment that the freshmen checked out as well as removed (incinerated) Holster’s old jockstrap. Lardo told her she was under no obligation to touch it. But Ford refused to spend the year avoiding one corner of the locker rooms just because a giant blond nerd decided it would be fun to create a rumor about his own damn underwear.

Coach Hall made sure she had the emergency contact tree, the semester’s practice schedule, and the regular season schedule. Coach Murray walked her through how to sharpen ice skates.

“Just in case,” he’d justified cryptically.

There was a scrimmage against Boston College scheduled for that evening. The locker room, water bottles, and camera were all set. At least, that’s what she thought to herself as she was setting up the tripod in the penalty box.

“Ford, when you’re done with that the second camera is in the bottom right drawer of my desk,” Coach Hall shouts from the other side of the rink.

“Second camera?” she croaks. Lardo never mentioned a second camera. Regardless, Ford runs to go get it.

As it turns out, though, Coach Hall’s door is locked, and she left her keys in the penalty box. After running there and back, Ford is pleased that the camera is relatively easy to find. She sighs in relief, checking her wrist watch. She still has an hour before the game to set it up.

Assuming the coaches want a different angle, Ford thinks a high angle shot behind Chris would be perfect.

Then there’s the matter of finding a second tripod. Ford isn’t getting paid to be a cinematographer. Plus, she has more work to do once the game began. Just then, Coach Murray walks past her, mumbling something about tadpoles and insurance under his breath.

“Coach,” she calls out, “do we have more than one tripod?”

“Huh?” His eyes snap away from the clipboard in his hands. “Oh. Uh...Probably in the storage room. I don’t think we have one, though.”

“Awesome,” she sighs. “Thanks, Coach.”

After scouring the storage room (twice), Ford concludes that a spare tripod doesn’t exist. She checks her watch again: forty minutes until game time.

“Ok, _think_ ,” she commands herself. “You can make fake blood from scratch. You can rock climb without a harness. Not that you’re ever trying that again. You were the fastest person on construction crew two years in a row. You can _make_ something.”

Ford speeds through a few YouTube videos on how to create a makeshift tripod. She ends up buying a water bottle from a vending machine, chugging it at superhuman speeds, and then scrambles to the equipment room to drill a hole in the cap.

“This is just like being an ASM,” she reasons out loud. “Only it involves minimum wage, and after-parties that hopefully won’t end as badly.”

She fits the cap with a nut and bolt. The YouTube video suggested sand to weigh down the water bottle. Which would be a feasible solution if she weren’t fifteen minutes from the nearest craft or hardware store with—twenty-five minutes until the game.

“Rocks,” Ford concludes.

Running outside to pick fucking _rocks_ , Ford vows to never be thrown off guard by a hockey game ever again. She fills the water bottle up the brim, tightens the cap and runs back to the work room where she left the camera. She gets to the student section behind Chow’s goal post, ready to set it up and turn it on and finally (finally) relax. Ford places it against the ledge of the rink. She momentarily stressed over the likelihood of someone checking someone else right in front of that exact spot—essentially knocking the (expensive) camera onto the floor.

Ford takes a deep breath as she flips on the camera.

“It’s probably no big deal,” Ford argues.

 

The first thing she notices when she turns on the camera is that it has ten percent battery left. Ford feels her eye twitch violently. She dares to look at her wrist watch—twelve minutes until game time.

“Fuck,” she all but shouts. She’s sprinting back toward the locker rooms, clutching the camera and DIY tripod for dear life. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck fuck.”

The loud cursing calms her nerves.

The good news, the camera charger is exactly where she remembered seeing it in the drawer. Even better, there’s two 100-foot extension cords underneath it.

“If these aren’t long enough I will scream,” she gripes.

It does occur to her as she’s running back toward the bleachers that there’s no way she can leave the camera unattended with all of this… interestingness attached to it. So instead of running to the bleachers and back, she creeps into the locker room and waits for the coaches to finish their pregame speech.

When they do, she approaches them with as charming a smile as she can muster with two reels of extension cords slung on her shoulder, and a professional-quality camera strapped to a disposable water bottle filled with pebbles.

“There wasn’t an extra tripod for the second camera. So, I made one. And the battery’s almost dead. So, I can charge it while I film. But I really don’t think I can leave it where I planned unattended—”

“Ford that’s fine,” Coach Hall assures her with a smile. “It’s only a preseason scrimmage. Go ahead and supervise the camera. The boys will be fine refilling their bottles on their own.”

“Ok, awesome,” Ford laughs shakily. “Thank you.”

“No, thank _you_ for being so flexible.” Coach Murray pats her on the shoulder. “Larissa was right. You’re perfect for this job.”

There’s five minutes until game time, but Ford (barely) manages to hook up the camera into the nearest outlet. She almost collapses with relief and exhaustion when she hits record.

“Maybe I should change majors,” she chirps herself. “Become the next Ava DuVernay or Spike Lee.”

The scrimmage itself goes fine. At least she thinks it does. Despite spending half the summer learning as much as she could about hockey, it’s different trying to keep up with the puck when she can’t get an instant replay. Then again, that’s what the tapes are for right?

 

When the game ends, Ford unplugs the charger, and follows the cords back the outlet—neatly coiling them as she goes. She heads to the locker room to start clearing it out.  By the time she’s put the camera and accessories away, the locker room is somehow magically clean. Which makes no fucking sense. Boys—these boys in particular—are typically wary of cleaning up after themselves.

“Yo, Ford,” Derek says behind her. “We got places to be, kegsters to crush. C’mon.”

She stares at him quizzically, point backwards with her thumb. “I was supposed to clean up around the stalls.”

He inspects the room for a moment, shrugging. “Looks good to me.”

“But—” She stops herself. It’s been a long day, and someone seems to have taken mercy on her. She nods, following him out toward the direction of the Haus.

Ford groans as she stretches. Their pace is languid and appreciated.

“Hey, I haven’t asked you but—” Nursey’s voice drifts off for a moment.

“Yea?” Her tone is gentle and patient.

Nursey blushes, averting his eyes. “How do you feel about physical contact? Like, hugs and shit.”

“I like them,” she admits. “My brothers are pretty affectionate guys.”

Derek nods. There’s a calm lull between them. The late summer air is thick but inviting.

“I think that’s what I miss most, y’know?” She adds out of nowhere. “My brothers are big guys, but they’re gentle and when they hug you it’s—like a smile wrapped in a promise.”

“Ford?” he says tentatively.

“Yea?”

“Can I hug you?”

She nods. It’s just a side hug, but he’s taller than her. His tank top is as soft as the fox stuffed animal she hides under her bed whenever there’s company.

“Thanks, Derek,” Ford mumbles.

“It’s chill,” Nursey hums. “You were out there busting your ass out there more than we were.”

“It’s my job,” she shrugs.

“Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve a break.”

She sighs as they pull apart in front of the front porch steps. “True.”

The door swings open, Chris waves at them with a red cup in hand. “‘Swawesome timing, the keg’s all set.”

Ford crinkles her nose. “Set for what?”

“The Samwell Hockey bylaws clearly state that the frog who gets the first point of the season will be the frog to do the season’s first official Kegster,” Bitty announces as Ford is ushered into the living room.

“But we’re amending them,” Wicky adds.

“The manager’s first game entitles them to the first keg stand,” Ollie elaborates with a smirk.

Ollie and Wicks take that opportunity to fist bump. Ford feels someone tapping her shoulder. It’s Dex tilting his head toward her.

“What these assholes mean is you’re good at what you do, and we appreciate you. And if you wanna drink? Go for it.”  

Ford nods. “Ok. I can do that.”

She lasts for all of seventy-five seconds as Nursey and Dex hold her legs. She grins as they lower her back to the ground.

“Impressive,” Whiskey hums. 

Ford shrugs bashfully. “Theatre kids throw wild parties.”

“I still can’t believe how fast you were hustling out there today,” Bitty commends her.

“It was amazing,” Tony praises. His eyes are as exuberant as his voice. “You were so fast. You were like a fox scampering all over the place.”

“Or trotting,” Whiskey chirps into his cup. He stiffens, looking over at Tango.

“Foxtrot,” Whiskey and Tango chorus.

Derek shouts ‘chill’ just as Chris says ‘swawesome’.  

“Excuse me, but—what?” Ford stares at them apprehensively.

“That’s your new nickname!” Tony exclaims. “And it matches ours, get it? Whiskey, Tango, and Foxtrot.”

Ford feels herself smile despite the corniness of Tony’s logic. “Ok,” she concedes. “I guess I’m Foxtrot.”

Whiskey slings an arm around her. “It grows on you, promise.”

“The nickname?” She guesses.

He purses his lips, gesturing with his head toward where Chow’s doing a keg stand. “All of it: the dance numbers in the kitchen, the impromptu, the cellies, the nicknames—the pie.”

Foxtrot nods agreeably. She understood. The men were enthusiastic and brash. The job was long hours, and involves stretching her problems solving skills and patience to their limits. But what else was new? This was her team. These were her boys. One week down, roughly another hundred to go.

She had a good feeling about this gig.

**Author's Note:**

> fic title - Swear I'm Good at This - the latest album by Diet Cig (aka all I listened to while I wrote this) 
> 
> Please check out the rest of [The Women of Check, Please! Zine](https://www.dropbox.com/s/tuzhvlf9cch1tyb/ZINE.pdf?dl=0)! Everyone put a lot of effort into their pieces and they came out so well.


End file.
